


Terms of Common Use

by allyoops



Category: Original Work
Genre: Education as a premise for rape, Elements of blackmail, F/M, Forced Masturbation, Forced Orgasm, Non-consensual vocabulary lesson, Rape, forced dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 16:17:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14877161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyoops/pseuds/allyoops
Summary: When Mr. Gledhill catches a young woman with unsuitable reading material after hours, he imposes a thoroughly instructive consequence.





	Terms of Common Use

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Junior Anti-Sex League (jrasl)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jrasl/gifts).



> Be advised that, although no age is specified, it is implied that one of the participants in sexual activity in this story is post-pubescent but may be considered underage depending on the laws in your region.

Clarence Gledhill thought he was alone in the library until he heard a chair squeak. It wasn’t the squeak of somebody trying to be quiet; it was the squeak that came of an unconscious shifting of weight. He knew the type well.

His first thought was that some student had lost track of time and stayed past closing. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time. Tsking his irritation, he pushed the drawer of the card catalogue shut, adjusted his blazer to hang with greater authority, and strode in the direction of the sound.

As he walked, he wound himself up to deliver a lecture such as far too many students these days were in want of receiving. If he had been allowed to thrash even half of them as their parents had too clearly failed to . . . but then, wasn’t that these modern times all over? No proper discipline anymore. And while he was vaguely aware that the same might have been said of his own childhood in the twenties and thirties, as far as Clarence was concerned 1964 was the natural successor to the days of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Worked into a thorough pique, he rounded the corner and came into view of a brief row of study tables, crammed along the wall for any students who failed to secure a private room for their studies.

All were empty save one. A girl perched on the edge of the chair, elbows resting on the table, a book supported between her palms. Her eyes were wide as she stared down at the rows of print and she was rocking, just slightly, front-to-back on her seat. The hem of her skirt swished in time with the creaks of the chair.

She didn’t look like a student. Even at the strict little private college attached to Clarence’s library, the students were rarely so demurely clad. This girl looked almost dowdy, with a loose blouse buttoned up to her throat and a skirt that ran down to—his eyes roamed southward, seeking the brief exposure of two dainty calves—almost her boot tops. Her hair was pulled back in a thick plait that hung down her back, but there was no disguising the manner in which her hair was inclined to curl every whichway. The braid was fighting a losing battle against the riotous tendencies of a positive waterfall of luscious, red-gold curls.

His fingers twitched as he imagined what it would feel like to root his fingers in those curls and pull.

He cleared his throat and the girl shot up so fast she sent her chair clattering to the ground. Once she was on her feet and facing him directly, he realized this was not a student at the college. She was too young. A child of a professor, perhaps? Some of them did incline to privileges, but he would have no such indulgence in his library.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked sternly, and even in the half-light of after hours, there was no mistaking her frightened blush.

“I’m so sorry. My parents told me—I’m waiting here.  They clean the rooms.”

A few facts ordered themselves immediately in Clarence’s understanding.

The cleaning service was staffed in great proportion by the members of a strict religious commune not two miles down the road. A population of austere little cabins, blistered by the sun, sat in rows behind a tall fence. The people within the fence kept very much to themselves, and even when performing janitorial duties elected to communicate as little as humanly possible with the rest of the staff. The women, as far as he could remember, he had never heard speak at all. This one, who had by all appearances only recently attained the shape of womanhood and so perhaps not yet the discretion expected of her sex among their community, was the first of their number to address him.

He was about to order her out of the library and back to the supervision of her parents when his eyes fell on the cover of the book she had been reading. One eyebrow crept up.

“What is your name?” he said, in a much different tone than the one he had been planning to use.

“Margaret,” she whispered. “Margaret Wasserman.”

“Hmm. Can you tell me, Margaret, what institution of learning is responsible for your education?”

Margaret squinted, as if trying to divine the reason for his question. He did not appreciate the delay.

“Answer me!” he rapped out, and she leaped with all the nerves of a girl well-accustomed to bearing without complaint the ire of the adults around her.

“My mother teaches us, Sir. Public schools are a corrupting influence. My father will not have us in them.”

“Your father sounds like a man of good sense,” he observed. “A man of principle. Would you agree?”

“Oh, yes, Sir.” Clearly, heaping accolades on the men in her life was much more familiar ground for Margaret. “My father is a very upright man.”

“Hmm. And what would this upright man say, do you think, if he knew that his daughter was perusing lewd materials in the company of a strange man after dark?”

Poor Margaret’s blush darkened to brick red. Her gaze followed his to the book: an archaic serial publication, housed in the library as part of a collection ostensibly kept to facilitate study of historic social mores and censorship doctrines, but in practice more typically sourced by students who wished to use the materials for the purpose that the author had always intended they should be used.

It was that same purpose, to judge by the unconscious little rocking motions she had been making when he found her, that Margaret had found for it also.

Margaret fumbled for a plausible excuse for the inexcusable.

“My—I mean, I don’t know . . . I only wanted to read a story while I waited.”

It was very possibly the truth. A girl kept pent up in a commune was perhaps not even able to immediately discern cheap popular fiction from more appropriate materials. If so, she was also unlikely to immediately understand the nature of the book she had picked up.

Clarence cast a considering gaze over the entirety of her person. Under the chaste blouse and skirt, her curves spoke to him in such a way that even a feed sack could not have prevented. Indeed, the modest outfit provoked in him the exact opposite reaction that he imagined had been intended, and her flustered confusion and embarrassment only compounded the effect. Clarence found her a refreshing change, this embarrassed innocent, from the saucy bold sort of girl who usually sat in those chairs and did what this girl had been about to do, whether she had meant to or not. He desired to possess every inch of the girl beneath those clothes, and he thought perhaps he saw his way clear to doing so.

“Come now, Margaret. Let’s not dissemble. I am sure your good parents would not believe you any more readily than I would. It’s plain you are a very immoral girl, are you not? You are reading immoral things and contemplating improper acts.”

Margaret gasped.

“Sir! Please, no, I have never—“

“I do not for a moment believe your denial, so you had best cease to make it.” He moved closer, so that she was forced to retreat between two tables toward the wall. He tapped the cover of the book. “Why, I am sure you have debased yourself in every manner described herein, many times over.”

“I truly have not,” she whispered, and to his intense excitement tears rose to her eyes as she spoke. “I—I do not even know what some of the words in that book meant, never mind what—what acts are described.”

He was almost positive she spoke the truth, which opened many avenues of possibility. He picked up the book in genuine interest, and flipped at random to a page.

“What, this word?” He indicated it, with a finger. “You must have known this one. You have such a thing, yourself.”

She shook her head earnestly.

“I have never seen such a word before today. I do not know that I have ever had such a thing.”

“Well then, here.” Without warning or ceremony her grabbed her, hard, between the legs. She went to her toes with a gasp, but she could not evade the clutch of his hand on her pubic bone, nor the rude way his thumb pressed through the fabric, seeking the soft promise of something sweet within. “What word do you use for this part of you?”

She shook her head beseechingly, and the first tears spilled.

“It’s a private place. My mother has said so.”

“Indeed. Well, you need not pretend to privacy with me. It has a proper name, and I charge you to name it now.” He indicated the book with a jerk of his head, then watched, with deep pleasure, as her lips shaped the word they had never spoke before.

“C-cunt.”

“Yes, there,” he breathed, and gave hers a rough rub through her skirt. “Very good. I am touching your cunt. Can you say so, Margaret?”

Her face red, her voice a damp whisper, she obeyed.

“You are touching my cunt.”

“Very well done. Yes I think we will give you a proper education, Miss Margaret. What else is a library good for, if not the diligent pursuit of knowledge? Take a seat, and read me this page. We will explore at length all terms foreign to your lexicon.”

“I-I had not read this far, I don’t know what is happening—”

“One does not read these books for the story, my dear,” he said drily, so Margaret, plainly discomfited, nevertheless took the opportunity to evade his clutching hand by sinking into the nearest upright chair and reading the page as directed.

“The- the king approached his con-concubine . . .”

“Do you know what a concubine is, Margaret?”

Margaret nodded, her eyes still on the page.

“They have them in the Bible.”

“That is true, they do. Do you imagine that you might have been a concubine in those times?”

Margaret shook her head, mortified.

“Oh, no, Sir.”

“Well, perhaps you are correct. You lack the necessary lewdness. You may plead of me now: 'Do not make of me a concubine, Mr. Gledhill.'”

Margaret lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes were positively swimming with tears as she said “D-do not make of me a—a concubine, Mr. Gledhill.”

“Of course not, Margaret. You are here seeking knowledge. Concubines were not scholars; they were base women who indentured themselves to men. They gave men all the favours that wives did, but did not have the status.”

Margaret, scarlet, looked back to the page.

“Do you know what favours wives give husbands, Margaret?” he asked mildly. She did not answer, and he smiled. “Ah, well, we will come to that soon enough. Please, continue.”

“She saw his cock rise in greeting.”

“There, now, a very pretty picture. Can you picture it, Margaret?”

Margaret, mute, shook her head.

“You must know what a cock is, at least.”

“A- a rooster, surely, Sir?”

He laughed.

“You are an eager little pupil, Margaret, but I’m afraid I could not give you a passing mark for accuracy just yet. No, my dear, look here and I will show you what a cock is when it is spoken of in relation to a man who desires the flesh of a girl he is owed.”

He unbuttoned the front of his pants and Margaret stared, a deer in headlights, as he drew his own cock forth for her to behold.

She swallowed.

“It . . . that’s . . .”

“It’s my cock, Margaret. Tell me so.”

“It’s your cock,” she whispered, and he nodded.

“Very good. It’s a very fine cock, too, don’t you think?”

Margaret stared at it helplessly, until a new sharpness of tone recalled her to herself with a jolt.

“Say it is a fine cock, Margaret.”

“It’s a very fine cock, Sir.”

“Thank you. You are a flattering little minx, to be sure. Now, what does the concubine in your book do with a cock?”

Margaret cast a frightened glance over the page.

“She t-touches it.”

“Then come along, my girl. Don’t keep us waiting.”

Poor Margaret inched closer and extended a trembling hand. She passed her palm over the fat cockhead, and winced as it twitched beneath her hand like a live thing.

“Very good,” he said gently. “That’s just right, Margaret. I am very pleased. You can keep doing that while you read.”

So she kept petting his cock, which was stirring pleasantly to full life, as she returned to the book.

“Kneeling before her liege lord, the concubine took his cock in her—”

Margaret broke off abruptly. He smiled at her transparent horror.

“Well? Go on.”

“Mouth,” whispered poor Margaret, and looked over at him beseechingly. “Oh, no, please. I couldn’t—I can’t possibly—please, don’t ask . . .”

“If I understand the text correctly, Margaret, the king does not need to ask. The concubine understands her role perfectly, and performs in his service according to her station. I will need you to do the same, or we will soon have a very concerning discussion with your parents about what sort of reading material their daughter finds appropriate in dark libraries with strange men.”

“But—” Margaret struggled to follow his reasoning. “But if I did as you say and put your cock in my mouth, I don’t think they would like it any better than my reading a book about a lady who puts a cock in her mouth. They might like it very less.”

“You may be right, of course. But you see, if we stop now, this is how it will be. I promise that if you refuse to take my cock in your mouth, I will go at once and tell them about the book. I shall show them all passages you have read, to yourself and to me. However, if you acquiesce to me in all things I ask of you, as a concubine would submit to her king, and if you learn all your lessons with me very well, then I promise that I shall honour your obedience in turn. They will not hear of your lewdness from me. Noblesse oblige, you understand?”

Margaret screwed up her forehead and stole a frightened glance at the book, then an even more terrified look at the thick, fleshy offering cradled in the palm of her molester.

“I see the choice is weighing on you,” he said kindly. “Let it never be said I troubled a gentle conscience. I will go at once,” he caught up the book, “and tell your parents all. Then you may bear your punishment from them with an unburdened soul.”

He had not even needed to make a show of putting away the full, visible evidence of his desire for her flesh before she cried out desperately for him to stop.

“No! Oh, no, please. They will beat me. I will,” she reached for his crotch with clumsy earnestness, “please let me—let me try to put your cock in my mouth.”

Her earnestness to do a thing that he knew was repulsive to her so inflamed his lust that he did not long tease her with the possibility of his denial. Hardened to full arousal, he stood before her and watched in undisguised amusement as she tried to bend over it, as though it were a water fountain and she desired to drink her fill.

He allowed her to fumble a moment or two before gently taking her by the shoulders and forcing her to her knees. She blinked up at him in comical enlightenment as she beheld the superiority of her new position.

“Oh,” she said simply, and he took advantage of the literal opening to introduce his cock to her mouth without further delay.

Poor Margaret struggled mightily with the task set to her. Her eyes widened, her cheeks bulged and she held him flatly on her tongue a moment. When she looked up into his face, he smiled his encouragement, enjoying the sight of the pretty little mouth wrapped around all that he planned to use in his domination of her.

“There, this is a good beginning. Now, do you recall what the concubine did next?”

She did not, so he held the book open before her eyes and was rewarded, a moment later, by timid, gentle suction on the tip of his cock.

She was not skilled in any sense of the word, but the clumsy innocence only amplified the charm of her services. She had no understanding of how to take him farther into her mouth, nor any interest in extending her attentions beyond the very modest portion of his cock that she presently held. He smiled indulgently down on her as she suckled, risking the occasional glance up at him to verify his continued approval of her efforts.

“What an accomplishment, Margaret. You are sucking my cock.”

She nodded awkwardly. He prompted her with a gentle tap of his fingers on her cheek.

“Ih’m thcckng yrr ckk,” she gurgled obediently, though with great difficulty.

Whatever Margaret lacked in articulation, she more than made up for in earnest effort. Clarence groaned and twined his fingers through her hair, acknowledging a great temptation to grip her head and fuck hard into her throat. He forbore to take this path, however, sensing that to push so far so fast would probably drive her to risk a beating from her parents rather than remain on her knees before him. Instead he pulled on the hair at her temples, then patted her head, and enjoyed the springiness of her curls beneath his palm.

“There’s a good girl, Margaret,” he said thickly, as her suckling took on a kind of unconscious rhythm. “You’re doing very well. Now, what does it say about the concubine next?”

He released her head to turn the page, and enjoyed the sight of her eyes tracking industriously over the text while her mouth was kept busy in service of his pleasure. The simple obedience of her, and the clear instinct to submit to what was asked of her, both gave him much pleasurable anticipation of what was yet to come.

When he judged she had read most of the page, he withdrew his cock and prompted, “Well? What does it say?”

She licked her lips doubtfully, cleaning them of the taste of him, before she recited:

“As she performed her devotions, the concubine’s cunt became fit for the king’s use. In the manner of the- the whore’s loose nature, her wanton cunt grew slick and wet.

“Her king delighted to watch her play with it, and did not scruple to avail his royal person of the pleasures it afforded his touch and tongue. No rare bouquet, this, but for all that it is so common, few flowers offer a more pleasurable nectar than the perfume of the houri’s cunt.”

She looked back up at him with timid expectation.

“Do you understand?” he asked kindly.

“I . . . no. I don’t.”

“Is your cunt wet, Margaret?”

She shook her head helplessly.

“Maybe? I don’t know.”

“Well, let us solve that mystery immediately. Up with you, child. Onto the edge of the table.” And so saying he caught her at once around the waist and settled her in that position. “Now, raise your skirt.”

She hesitated, but not to such an extent that he felt obliged to chastise her. Her inclination to do as she was told had clearly been trained into her from a young age. When her skirt was raised, he divested her of her underwear without ceremony, and bade her raise her skirt higher, to bring her charms out of shadow and expose them to the light. She obeyed, taking refuge behind the shield of her skirt as she revealed herself for his examination.

Her mons were plump and perfectly formed, a pale pink seashell colour under the sweet gold curls that tried in vain to shield them from his view. With one hand he parted the nether lips, and was gratified to see that her earlier innocent enjoyments, rocking her little cunt against the edge of the chair, had indeed prepared her for woman’s role in congress. She glistened with her own juice, though she could not yet fathom its purpose.

“Your cunt is very wet, Margaret,” he told her. “You must tell me so.”

“My cunt is very wet, Sir.”

“Your cunt is fit for use.”

She trembled, but echoed him. “My cunt is fit for use.”

“Well done. And so it is. Will you touch it now?”

She reached around the meagre protection of her skirt and patted her little curls a few quick, clumsy times. He laughed.

“Not like that. You must give yourself proper attention for my pleasure. Here, let me show you.”

He took her hand in his and guided the girl’s slim fingers slowly, leisurely, over the pink slit and up into the curls tangled over the plump mons. Then he repeated the action several times, showing her how to introduce one finger to her folds, and lingering with particular tenderness on the shy pearl just peeping out from the clitoral hood. He was rewarded, after several such attentions, with the increased prominence of the pearl and a few soft, involuntary sighs from his frightened little pupil.

“Very good, Margaret,” he murmured. “Now you must proceed as I have shown you. I will observe.” His voice was throaty with his own desire, his cock aching to plunge in and possess every last inch of her untested depths. He silently congratulated himself on his superhuman restraint as he carefully removed his hand and watched her continue.

Margaret, he noted, seemed to have a charming enjoyment of her clitoris. At least, this was where she devoted most of her clumsy ministrations, petting and even tweaking the bud gently. The flush of her cheeks and the vacant expression that stole over her face enchanted and aroused him in equal measure. She stared blankly at the far wall, her mouth hanging slightly agape, as she rubbed her virgin sex according to his teaching.

“Very good,” he repeated softly, as she stroked herself more urgently, focusing on the shy little bud that gave her such sweet pleasure, rubbing roughly, quickly, then more quickly still until—

“Ohh-hh-hh!” cried Margaret.

The muscles in her calves contorted charmingly against him; he felt the flex and spasm even through the fabric of his blazer. She dropped her skirt but still clutched her cunt, giving him a perfect view of her face, flushed and frightened. Her eyes stood out wide and round, and her mouth pursed in a tiny, perfect O that he imagined driving his cock into as thoroughly as he imagined availing himself of her cunt. She whimpered and shook, and he watched in rapt pleasure as she rode out the waves of sexual completion in perfect innocence and alarm. When he judged that the tide had ebbed, he knelt between her thighs and pushed aside her hand and skirt to apply his mouth to her cunt.

She made a soft, insincere effort to push him back, which he ignored. He laved the little pearl with his tongue, then bore down fiercely, nibbling all about until she was again crying out, bewildered and not wholly unprotesting, but no longer, he thought, quite as alarmed. She liked her own pleasure too well to beg him to stop.

“There’s a good girl, Margaret,” he murmured. “To let me lick your little cunt.” Then he looked up expectantly, so she performed the necessary recitation.

“I’m a good girl to let you lick my little cunt.”

He rose and forced his mouth over hers, obliging her to taste her cunt on his lips. When he drew back she looked really frightened. It was as if the kiss, a thing she _did_ know about, had shocked her far more than his mouth on her cunt had ever done.

A blasphemy in one’s own language, he supposed, was much more shocking than simply being told a foreigner had said a word that held no meaning for her.

“There now,” he said, a little short of breath, “you have had your fun. A concubine born out of time, aren’t you, Margaret? If you had lived a thousand years ago, you should have served a king very gladly in this way.”

“I shouldn’t!” Margaret said, but sounded unconvinced, as if the unexpected ability of her own body to deliver such pleasure had made her doubt almost everything she already knew. In any event, he was uninterested in persuading her further. His cock was strained almost beyond all endurance. He needed to possess her, to be within her, and to see in her face the full knowledge of him before another minute had passed.

“It’s time now, Margaret,” he said hoarsely. “Read the page.”

She had only to view the facing illustration, however, to cover her face and give a low cry of dismay.

“Oh, no!”

“Yes my dear,” he said, edging the plump, pale thighs apart and admiring the perfect readiness of his cock and the cunt that he intended should contain it. “This is the natural path of all concubines, you see, and I have only arranged that you should know it. Here now,” he fit the cockhead to the slick little pouch of her womanhood, ready and eager to welcome him in a way that poor Margaret was not, “we’ll not make each other wait any longer. I am going to put my cock into your cunt. But first you must tell me so.”

She looked up at him piteously.

“Y-you are going to put your—your cock into my—my cunt.”

“That is quite a bold thing for a nice girl to say, Margaret. Perhaps you had better ask me politely, instead. I will think better of you if you do.”

So Margaret, tears trickling down her cheeks, entreated Clarence very softly, “Will you please put your cock in my cunt?”

“Yes, Margaret,” he assured her, “I would be glad to.”

His entrance was firm and considered. He did not rut into her like an animal, nor treat her over tenderly, like a lover. Rather he made sure that the slick lips of her sex had been suitably pierced by his cockhead and then, with steady, measured thrusts he advanced, incrementally, into the snug paradise of Margaret Wasserman’s untested cunt.

She wept beneath him, of course, and her face was an enchanting study of terror, bewilderment and dismay. She clutched at his shirtfront in a confusion of denial and welcome, both inviting him in and begging him to retreat.

Of course, even if she had done neither, he knew which course he would have chosen.

She had no true defence against him. Her cunt was made fit to receive him, and truth be told it welcomed the invasion, even if the girl herself did not. The thick, tight heat of her rejoiced at his possession in fullness. As he advanced into the very core of her, claiming her for his sole use, her cunt behaved with admirable fitness, yielding in such perfect submission to the demands of his cock that he was again overcome, and bent to force a kiss upon her. When he completed the invasion, and made ready to fuck her, Margaret’s horror was at such odds with the welcome of her cunt that he was inspired to help her reason through the situation in which she had found herself.

“I am going to fuck you now, Margaret. Tell me you know it.”

She nodded miserably.

“You are going to fuck me, now.”

He suited his action to her word, making full use of her unwitting readiness, riding the slick of her into the very depth of her cunt and relishing the look of horror on her face at her own completion.

“I’m fucking you, Margaret,” he whispered, and she, so acclimated to the expectation, agreed without prompting.

“You—you are fucking me,” she whimpered, the words somewhat broken apart by the force of his assault.

The soft pliancy of her, the utter surrender in her face and voice, was nearly his undoing. Unwilling to finish any sooner than he had to, Clarence found the strength to withdraw, turn the girl around, and bend her facedown across the table.

Without the sight of her tears, he was able to re-enter her cunt from behind, wrap his fist in the thick, red rope of her hair in the manner of a horseman anchoring the filly he means to ride into exhaustion, and made good and proper use of her. He fucked into her hard and fast, making it necessary that she should bear her face down on her arms to smother her cries. He did not, of course, ride her long: she had worked him up too thoroughly for that, and his own pleasure was not to be denied. But as he felt the pressure at the bottom of his spine, he made sure to bend forward, bearing her down into the table with his weight, and finish the lesson.

“You are such a good fuck, Margaret,” he said, and she, rather than repeat the phrase, hearkened back to even earlier lessons of good manners in the face of a compliment.

“Thank you, Sir,” she wept. “I really did _try_ to be.”

He could stand it no more. Bearing down masterfully deep within her, claiming full use of all she had been forced to give him, he came. As he came he fell down completely upon her, flattening her on the table, so that when she received him in was in full submission and breathless, almost choked silence.

After that, it was quiet in the library.

 

* * *

 

Margaret Wasserman was waiting in the hallway for her parents when they finished their work. Her eyes were downcast and her hands were clasped in her lap. At a word from her mother, she rose and followed her parents down the hall to the stairs.

It is possible her stride was somewhat altered from the usual; a person who looked closely may have observed it, though her skirt hid the truth of this to a great extent, and in any event, her parents walked before her, and she behind, so of course they did not see.

 

* * *

 

In the library Clarence Gledhill was pleased to reshelve a particularly lewd book in the special collection, right a chair and rearrange the tables to his satisfaction. He then returned to the card catalogue with a spring in his step and, though most of his colleagues would not have believed it to see it, something very like a smile on his face.

It was the night watchman who got the real shock, though. Try as he might to tell the tale, he never could find anybody who would believe it, but the watchman knew what he heard and he stood by it.

“Hand to God, Gertie,” he told his wife the next morning, “I did! I would swear to you on a stack of Bibles that I actually heard the feller whistle!”


End file.
